


Some Party

by coveredbyroses



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Drinking, F/M, Groping, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-17
Updated: 2018-11-17
Packaged: 2019-08-24 18:26:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16645499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coveredbyroses/pseuds/coveredbyroses
Summary: Inspired by a pleasant dream.





	Some Party

You’re three beers in and feeling nice; giddy. The alcohol flows warm through your veins, melts your muscles. You take another sip and tip your head back into the plush cushion of the loveseat, let your eyes close as you listen to the rock music thumping through the surround sound speakers. **  
**

You bounce a little, tighten your fingers around the warming glass of your bottle when a heavy weight plops into the seat next to you.  “Heyyy,” Dean says, voice light with his own drunkenness and raised just enough to be heard over the music and party chatter. “You look like you’re feelin’ _good_.”

“Mmhmmm…” you keep your eyes closed, but smile sleepy. You crack your eyes, peer up at him from under your lashes. “Can’t believe we crashed a party. What are we, seventeen?”

He smirks, relaxed eyes scanning the busy crowd sipping from red cups and clutching glass bottles. Some are dancing, bodies pressed close as they rock and grind to the beat; some are huddled in groups, laughing at exaggerated stories

“Who cares?” Dean says, lolling his head toward you. He lifts his bottle to his lips, and winks. “Free beer.”

“Hell yeah,” you grunt, raise your own bottle so you can clink the glass necks together.

Cream’s “White Room” comes on then, and start to lazily bob your head to the rhythm.

“Good taste in tunes,” Dean notes, throws an arm over the back of the sofa. You hum your agreement as your eyes close again, the walking base line settling into your blood.

You sip your beer as you absorb the music, take your last swallow just as the song reaches the guitar solo.

“Y’want another?” Dean asks.

“Nah, I’m good for now,” you say, lean forward to thunk the hollow glass against the oak coffee table. You scoot closer, tuck yourself into your hunting partner’s side.

You and Dean are kind of a casual thing, no real feelings (that either of you will admit), but no strangers to a post-hunt fuck now and then.

The song ends as you settle your head against his chest, curve your hand over the broad round of his shoulder. You curl your legs up, so that your knees are nudged up against his thigh. Dean takes another sip, and you can just make out the faint tinkling of liquid against glass as the brew flows down the neck to flood his mouth.

Zeppelin’s “Whole Lotta Love” is playing now, and you snort against the warm cotton of Dean’s t-shirt at the timing of it. He sets his now-empty bottle on the end table, runs a big hand along the dip of your side.

“You goin’ ta sleep on me so soon?” he rumbles, hand now at the side of your neck, rough thumb tracing the line of your jaw.

“Nuh-uh,” you mumble. “Just gettin’ comfy.”

He chuckles, runs his knuckles down the tendon lining your neck, then back up, pushes them under your chin to tip your head back. His spruce eyes glitter under the dim lights and he smiles lazy before leaning in to press drunk-loose lips against yours. The kiss is soft and languid, not deep by any means; just the two of you gently sucking at each other.

You gasp out a breath of surprise into his hot mouth when Dean’s hand falls to your right thigh, midway between knee and hip, fingers dipped down into the sensitive inner portion—dangerously close to where you haven’t been touched in  _weeks_.

He breaks the kiss, smiles against your still-parted lips as he squeezes you through your jeans. “Still comfy?”

“Maybe,” you breathe, fingers curling into the soft fabric covering his big shoulder.

He hums, and then— _fuck_ —he shifts his hand so that he’s palming your denim-covered cunt, kneading you in rhythmic compressions.

You gasp again, from more than just the pleasure of his groping hand; you’re in  _public_. You’re pretty well-hidden with the way you’re curled in on him, but it wouldn’t be that hard for anyone nearby to discern what’s happening.

“Dean, I…fuck—we can’t!”

“Shhh…” Dean shushes, lips tickling at yours. “No one’s watchin’, no one cares…Just relax.”

There  _is_ something wildly dangerous about being touched like this out in the open—and the thought that  _anyone_ could be watching flushes you hot.

You push  _up_ and  _forward_ , crush your lips to his as you roll your hips into his hand. He breathes heavy into you as he starts to rub you  _up-and-down-up-and-down…_

He licks into your mouth as you melt into him, the effects of alcohol and white-hot arousal dampening your bra and hairline.

You moan low in your throat as he picks up speed, fingers catching the hard seam of your jeans just  _right_ —

A heavy hand lands on your shoulder, pulling you closer to soft lips and warm chest as the hand between your legs goes even faster—passes over and over your desperate clit in firm strokes.

You tear your lips from his when you feel it—Your jaw locks, teeth gnash when you come; hot waves of pleasure rolling over and over you before receding into a steady, pulsing hum.

You pant against him as your racing heart slows, and he smiles, eyes shining.

“Wow,” you manage, blinking at him through the fog of inebriation and endorphins.

“This is some party.”


End file.
